The Soul Weaver

CHAPTER 23

Just before moonset I turned Jocelyn loose to refresh herself on the sweet grass of the Lydian Vale. The white stone of P’Clor’s Tower gleamed like pearl in the moonlight. As I wearily climbed the wooden stair to the single plain room at the top, a lazy, humid breeze soughed through the empty window slots.

P’Clor’s Tower was my refuge, my solitude, the place where I would strip down to essentials: bread, water, sun, wind, forest, and words. A Word Winder has no more fundamental necessity than such a retreat, where he can hear the truth of words unmuddled by society and business, come to understand their nuances, and prepare a place for them to dwell within himself.

The Lady Seri stood beside one of the narrow windows, as if she were watching the drift of clouds that rushed past the setting moon. She appeared to be alone in the circular chamber, but the vigilant Paulo materialized from a shadowed window ledge behind me as I topped the last stair.

“It’s only Ven’Dar the Vainglorious,” I said, tossing him one of the spare cloaks and laying another about the Lady’s shoulders. “I think we’ve a little space to breathe for now.”

“Can you do it?”

“Help the Lady Seriana? If her mind was locked with the same key as mine, and if she’s not drifted too far away to hear me, I think I can.”

“You’ve got to hurry. I can’t - ” Taut, anxious, the youth remained by the top of the stair.

“Can’t what?”

“I can’t stay with you. Don’t ask me to explain. Just hurry.”

The urgency in the youth was indisputable, even if I’d had a thought of delay. I removed my weapons and laid them on the floor beside the table where I kept my supply of candles and paper and ink.

Even if young Paulo hadn’t urged me to it, I would have made the attempt. Lady Seriana’s life was less substantial than the waning moonlight, and I had no faith she would survive the coming of day any more than the angled beams pouring through my tower window would.

I guided her to my chair, a straight-backed wooden thing I’d crafted on one of my sojourns in P’Clor’s Tower. Then I sat myself on a flour barrel I’d pulled close, laid my hands on her temples, and intruded on her mind.

My Lady, forgive my entry unbidden. My knowledge of your character and history tells me that you would grant me this privilege were you able. I have dwelt in the place you wander, and I know how impossible is the task of mastering a coherent thought, but for your freedom and your life, I beg you try. With all you are and all you have been, grasp the words I give you and hold them close. Then I opened myself to her.

Great Vasrin, Shaper and Creator! I came so near drowning in a fog of incoherent images, I almost had to withdraw. She was very far away.

Well, nothing for it but to begin and to hope. Singer, Healer, Speaker, Word Winder… One after the other, I gave her the names and all I possessed of their essence, just as I had carved them from my own chaos a short few hours before. Each one I forced into the stream of her thoughts, holding it firm until I felt the flow snatch it from my grasp and whirl it away.

Never had I been involved in so intense a speaking. Twice I came near losing my place in the list. After no more than a quarter of the names, my sending faltered. My head pounded unmercifully; my arms weighed like lead; and my shoulders screamed at me to let them fall. She was so very deep, and I had been through so much myself. Unutterably foolish of me not to rest for a while before trying this. I would have to stop and try again.

Focus, Ven’Dar. Send the tale deep. Etch it in letters of fire, like a beacon she cannot fail to see. Twenty-seventh in the list is what? Say it. Twenty-seventh is Scribe…

Just as earlier that night, there arose in me such a strength of will, a veritable lodestone that drew together every fragment of steel I possessed, so that I could not wilt or wander or falter.

… Seventy-fifth is Sea Dweller, who breathes water, and tends the gardens and herds of the deeps…

It was as if I had four hands, two of them invisible, but strong and tireless, supporting the two that trembled lest they lose contact with the sad and lovely face before me. But whose hands were they? The Lady and Paulo were mundane. The only hands they possessed were the pale, slender ones that lay passively in the Lady’s lap, and the strong and capable pair belonging to the youth who sat silent and still in the shadows.

Almost at an end… what is the next? Stand on your head…

Ninety-ninth in the list is Finder, who sees beyond the visible and can sort one essence from another in the great blending of the world that is life. And the hundredth in the list is Soul Weaver, the myth.

As the last words echoed from my inner voice, monumental weariness overwhelmed me as if my very bones had been drawn out of my ‘flesh and discarded out of reach. My aching arms fell to my sides, and the moon-streaked darkness spun slowly about my head. Paulo jumped off the table and caught my shoulders from behind before I fell off my barrel, while from the distant forest, an owl’s clear hoots broke the expectant silence - the silence of failure, I believed. The Lady had not moved.

But then she gasped with one great breath, and the great brown eyes that for four months had reflected only profound emptiness blinked and focused on my own. Her lips curved into a smile, and as her gaze slid over my face to the one standing behind me, her expression blossomed with deep affection. But as I sighed and slipped into happy oblivion, the smile faded. Grief and horror claimed the territory of her eyes. “Oh, my dear one, what have you done?”

I’d thought to enjoy the sleep of satisfaction, of deeds accomplished and battles won, but the Lady’s stricken countenance wrapped me in a blanket of unease, and only fearful visions were my night’s companions.

The soft, scratching sound would stop for a moment, then take up again, somewhere close to my head, sometimes farther away. Sometimes it was interrupted by a rhythmic picking, then a flutter, and a tickle of moving air across my face. Ah, sparrows, the permanent tenants of P’Clor’s Tower, so tame they’d nest in your hair if you were still long enough.

My aching bones begged me not to move. Only a blanket separated me from the floor, and someone had thrown a cloak over me in the chill predawn hours after I’d collapsed. Now the day was warm, and the angle of the sun shallow. I already felt like a piece of raw meat that had been dragged through the streets by a starving dog, and if I stayed under the warm cloak I was going to smell like it, too, worse than I did already. I threw off the cloak and creaked to my feet.

The Lady was sleeping on my thin pallet, her red-brown hair loose and scattered, her cheeks blooming with life. A cloak had been laid over her. Likewise deep in slumber, Paulo had curled on the bare floor at the head of the stair like a faithful hound guarding the entry. Somehow I had expected the boy to be gone when I awoke.

Grabbing an empty bucket from a hook on the wall, I eased around the sleeping youth and tiptoed downstairs to where a rain barrel stood in the glade, a dipper hung over the side. The water was cool and sweet. Then, ignoring all modest caution, I stripped and poured three buckets full over me. Somehow the water felt colder on my back than in my mouth, but to waste enchantment to heat it always seemed inappropriate at P’Clor’s Tower. So, I smothered my yelp and snatched up my filthy shirt to rub myself dry.

Refreshed now the ordeal was over, I donned the damp shirt and breeches, vowing to burn them at the first opportunity, along with the underdrawers Vasrin herself could not have forced me to put on again. Then I refilled the pail and carried it upstairs for my companions, planning to lay out the meager bounty of my refugee’s provision bag for breakfast.

Lying on the worktable next to the leather bag was a folded paper, a sheet from my own small supply, marked, FOR THE LADY. Odd. I didn’t think I’d taken a yen for composition in my sleep, and I assumed the Lady wouldn’t have found it profitable to write a missive to herself. And from everything I understood, Paulo was illiterate.

“What puzzles you so this morning, Master… Ven’Dar, I think?”

I didn’t quite jump out of my skin at the quiet interruption. “Ah, my lady, what a pleasure it is - a most profound pleasure - to meet you at last.” I bowed, extending my palms. “I am indeed the one you name.”

I gave her my hand, and she rose from the pallet, returning the politeness. “My thanks are inadequate, Master.”

Her smile was genuine and kind, but her mind was not on our pleasantries, only on the youth who lay unmoving by the stair. She crouched down beside him, laying her hand on his back as if to assure herself he was breathing. Only after a long while did she rise and move to the window slot to survey our green haven. She folded her arms across her breast, one thumb pressed pensively to her lips. Her eyes flicked repeatedly to the boy.

I hated to intrude on her thoughts, but our time was not unbounded. “Please, come and share breakfast, my lady: dried fish, some old, but well preserved bread, and fruit. You need nourishment. As for my small mystery, it is yours to unravel.” I handed her the letter. “The contents are not the puzzle - I’ve not taken it upon myself to peruse your correspondence uninvited - but only the author. The message was written last night here in the tower, for I recognize the paper, and the ink is fresh. But we’ve had no visitors, and that means, eliminating you and me, the scribe must be young Paulo. I believed the boy unschooled.”

She fingered the folded paper, but made no move to read it. “Paulo cannot read or write,” she said softly. “You’ll have to tell me what it means that he could do this.”

“I’m not sure… If I may ask, what transpired last night after I so unamiably collapsed?”

“I was tired, too; it was like a dream. He laid you on the blanket, covered you with your cloak, and then led me to the pallet. The next thing I knew I woke to the sunlight.” She threw the letter onto the writing table. “It’s impossible. Impossible. I won’t believe it.” Her vehemence seemed little related to the matter of Paulo being able to write.

“Perhaps reading the message will answer your questions.”

I busied myself by squandering a small enchantment to heat a cup of water and measuring out chamomile and meadowsweet from the small supply in the leather bag. I offered her the tea along with a chunk of ancient dried fruit that I hoped would not break her teeth. But she had picked up the paper again and was turning it over and over in her hands. What was she afraid of? Finally, after taking one more glance at the sleeping boy, she unfolded the letter.

Though it was only a single close-written page, she studied it for half an hour or more before silently offering it to me. I set aside my cup and took it.

My dearest Mother,

I hope beyond all hopes that this morning finds you completely recovered from your grievous injury. I beg you not to destroy this in disgust at my hypocrisy, or in revulsion at the truth you guessed last night. Rather I ask you to indulge one last time in the love and trust you have so generously - so unquestioningly - given me in the past.

Paulo will tell you of all that has befallen us, and with it of the revelation that has only lately come to me. On my life I swear to you I did not consciously seek your death, nor did I knowingly betray the defense of Avonar. I cannot expect anyone to believe this, save perhaps you, who have always been willing to think the best of me. Paulo, despite his generous service, has doubts. I doubt myself, yet both deeds were so alien to my desires that I cannot admit their possibility. Of course I must, for the future of the worlds is once again at risk because of me, and the remedy is once again in your hands, and, through your intercession, in the hands of my father.

The world that Paulo will describe to you is not Gondai, nor is it the familiar home where we were born. The Bounded is a third world, a world still forming, still growing, peopled with a strange and wonderful variety of beings, who, while bearing little of beauty or grace, are no more evil in their souls than any race of humans. This world was newly born from the chaos of the Breach at about the time we traveled through it on our escape from Zhev’Na. In. some way I do not yet understand, my actions on that journey and the state of my mind at that time have created a profound bond between me and the Bounded, so that I know and feel and experience its life as if it were a part of my own body.

Unfortunately, the magic of the Bounded has shown me the truth of something I have suspected and feared these four years. The Lords maintain their hold on me as well. I believe the Lords themselves discovered this when I crossed the Bridge four months ago and now threaten ruin to all the worlds I touch. If the situation remains as it is now, the Lords will surely gain everything we denied them four years ago. Just as the Prince so rightly fears, they will control me, and they will control the Breach. It seems they can already use me at their will to wreak havoc; you and my father’s counselors and subjects have suffered grievously from it. This is not to excuse myself from those deeds, for ultimately, as with all the evils I have done, I am responsible.

The remedy seems very simple. My death will remove this danger, and if that were the only concern, I would kneel willingly before the Prince and let him finish what he so badly wants to do. But because of my strange connection to the Bounded, I believe thousands of innocents would die with me. I am a conduit of the Lords, and when the Dar’Nethi focus their power against the Lords, it is funneled through me onto that land in a storm of fire. As the land is injured, so I am weakened, and so I believe that when I am destroyed, so would it be, and all who dwell there.

Two things must be done.

First, the attacks on Zhev’Na from Avonar must stop until I am dead. The Lords do not suffer from them, but reflect them on me, using them to return the Bounded to chaos and thereby strengthen themselves.

Second, my father must enter my mind and sever my connection to the Bounded before he slays me. I cannot ask him, because I don’t know how to find my father in Prince D’Natheil, and the Prince will not listen to me before he strikes. You must convince him to do this, if not on the strength of your desire, then in mercy for people he has no reason to hate and no reason to destroy.

Now I wait. I haven’t power enough to stay any longer, and Paulo is at risk every moment I do so. He will be able to reveal my location when he is convinced that all will come about as I have said. But if the time goes too long, more than five days from this, only one course will remain open to me. I will have to send the Singlars into the world where we were born, hoping they can find some haven there once I am destroyed. I have a friend of some influence who says she will do what she can for their safety.

Know that your faith and love have saved me from despair countless times over. When all is done, I would like to think you might visit the Bounded and see its wonders. Have Paulo introduce you to Vroon and his friends, whom I met in my dreams, and Nithea, who spends her life giving what she can never possess, and Tom, the shepherd’s son, who led me there, and will play music for you such as you’ve never heard.

Trust me.

Your loving son,

Gerick

“He was here, then. While we were asleep? Astonishing that he could pass my wards… ”

The Lady knelt by the boy, shaking her head, and my words dwindled away. How foolish is all certainty that can so easily lead us away from the obvious. She kept her tear-filled eyes on him and stroked his hair, and only then did I begin to understand. I recalled how her expression had changed as she looked on Paulo the night before, and the words that had formed on her lips. “Oh, my dear one… ” She had not addressed the boy Paulo, but her son, recognizing him within the body of his friend. Her son had possessed Paulo, displaced a living soul for his own purposes.

I dropped the letter on the floor, overwhelmed by revulsion, the reaction bred into me by fifty years of hearing tales of the Lords of Zhev’Na and their hideous games.

“Is there any chance Paulo can survive this?” whispered the Lady.

“I’ve known no one to survive such a violation. Paulo will be dead when the… being… leaves him. Unless I kill him first in order to kill the one controlling him.” I was horrified, nauseated. Yet…

I retrieved the folded paper and studied it again. A trap, surely. A devilish son begging his father to enter his mind… to open himself… to leave himself, the Prince of Avonar, vulnerable.

Yet, the words were so at odds with such villainy. The words… Interpretation of words was my life. Never had I read words so fraught with loneliness and pain, a desolate honesty that belied the writer’s tender years. I could not reconcile what I assumed… what I believed… what I had been taught… with what I read.

Could the boy I knew as Paulo truly be the heinous manifestation of a depraved Lord of Zhev’Na? I thought back to our first encounter in my tent in the desert, and then in the root cellar that became our prison cell. He had clearly been himself in our first interview. When could the displacement have taken place? The youth’s care for me in the days of my madness had been kind and earnest, and the only alteration in his manner came after… no, just before I broke Radele’s enchantment, when his hands grew icy, and his voice fell silent, and I… I was changed…

“Great Vasrin!” I bent over the sleeping youth and shook him with a vigor that would have roused a dead man - as indeed the Lady believed I was trying to do.

“Master Ven’Dar, have mercy. Leave him in peace!”

I ignored her. “Paulo! Wake up! I know it’s you.”

“Cripes, can’t a body have a decent sleep without somebody has to bully ‘em up and - ?” The lanky, disheveled boy sat up, rubbing his face and yawning. When he caught sight of the Lady, her mouth open in shock, he stopped in mid-complaint. “Oh, my lady, it’s a fine thing… a fine thing to see you.”

“Then you’re not - ” She picked him apart with her eyes, and then glared at me as if I’d pulled some student’s prank on her. “He’s all right. And himself. We must have been wrong.” She snatched the letter from my hand and read it again, while I tried to contain my excitement. If this were true…

“Paulo, we were afraid for you,” I said, squatting so I could look him in the eye. “You weren’t exactly yourself last night.”

The boy leaned up against the curved stone wall, scratched his head, and sighed. “He wouldn’t hurt me. He knew it was a risk, and he hated the thought of it, being so evil a thing as it is, and not even sure how it is he does it. He let me decide. I agreed it was the only way.”

“So you know what happened,” I said. “What he did to you.”

“Of course, I know. We planned it. Well, we didn’t plan he would have to take over like he did. Only that he would hide… inside me… and be here to help if he was needed.”

“So he left his own body and took up residence in yours. And when he saw I could not free myself, he left your body and came into mine.” The sustaining hands. The strength and reason I could not muster on my own. Directing, not controlling my thoughts and actions, though sharing an awareness of my memories and capabilities. And when the deed was done, he had relinquished his control, returning my mind and soul intact. Not corrupted. Not dead. Free.

“We never expected the Lady to be so bad off. And then you was the only one as could help. He had to get you free.” His steady gaze met mine and nothing… nothing lived in him but simple truth.

“What are you talking about?” demanded the Lady. “I thought Gerick had taken Paulo as he did Gar’Dena. Why isn’t Paulo dead?”

I had to work to keep from laughing aloud, struggle to remember the dire situation of the world. This discovery would not even be a footnote in history if we didn’t think carefully about its consequences. But my excitement could not be contained.

“Madam, young Paulo lives and breathes and delights us with his company even after sharing his person, because your son is no more one of the Lords than are you. It is the myth, the legend, the hundredth talent in the list. Twice I tallied the names last night, not knowing that the one who enabled me to speak the list was its capstone… its enigma. Who could relinquish his own life so completely, taking unto himself the full body, mind, and spirit of another being - lending strength or courage, skill or knowledge - and then be able to yield the other soul undamaged? Who could do such a thing and himself remain whole?

“Your son, my lady, is Dar’Nethi and he is sixteen years of age, and, as happens with most of us, his talent has come upon him with ungainly, overwhelming, and mystifying suddenness. And in a charming convolution of the Way, it seems he has turned out to be a Soul Weaver, the rarest of the Dar’Nethi talents, bearing a gift that carries the most magnificent possibilities and the most complex ramifications, and he doesn’t even know it.”